Iron and Magic

“If you ever pull a demented stunt like that again, I will make your life a living hell.”

He bared his teeth at her. “You already do, darling.”

He got the message loud and clear. She wanted to pretend that nothing happened. They were back to normal, sniping at each other every chance they got and stopping just short of drawing blood.

“Do you think the mrogs will be back?”

“Unlikely,” he said. “They went all out, and we kicked their ass. We offer too little reward for too great an effort. Most likely whoever commands them will move on, but if not, we will be ready.”

“Leonard has a theory about the elder being behind it.”

The Pictish scholar. Right. “He does?”

“When you’re better, I’ll send him up. It’s a bit out there, but it makes sense in an odd way.”

She turned around.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To the greenhouses. Our herbs keep dying. We have to figure out why.”

“Elara,” he called.

She turned around, walked up to the bed, and leaned over him, one knee on the covers. “You’re my husband, Hugh. We no longer walk alone. We are each other’s shelter in a storm. As long as you want to stay here, you’ll have a home. I’ll never abandon you.”

She leaned forward. Her lips brushed his and she kissed him. He tasted her, fresh and sweet, a hint of honey on her tongue. He got hard.

She let him go and walked away, closing the door behind her, like a phantom, there one moment, gone the next.

He stared at the door, tried to sort out what the hell just happened, and failed.

He didn’t want to let her go.

Fuck.

He reached for the towels and pulled them off. A plate waited for him, covered with a glass cover, fogged up from the inside. He took it off. Stacks of warm crepes waited for him, drizzled with caramel and honey.

The Preceptor of the Iron Dogs laughed and reached for his fork.

THE END